


A Barbed Wire Cage

by ThePsychicChef



Category: Band of Brothers, The Book Thief (2013), The Book Thief - Markus Zusak
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 11:06:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3607848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePsychicChef/pseuds/ThePsychicChef
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man, hearing the scrape of boots on the dead earth, opened his murky browns into steady blues.<br/>The Fist Fighter nodded his head.<br/>The Medic nodded back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Barbed Wire Cage

**Author's Note:**

> *Warnings*  
> This work contains mentions of death and Holocaust stuff.
> 
> This is a work of fiction based on the actors portrayal in the mini series. I mean no disrespect to the real members of Easy, the survivors, and the dead of the Holocaust.

The sky was grey.  
So were their faces.  
  
There were no signs, no roads, no explanations for the barbed wire enclosure hidden away inside the German forest with a thick chain strangling its gate.  
Easy Company was no stranger to Death. They met Him floating above their parachutes as they rained down on D-Day, they felt Him watching them from the rooftops of Carentan, they ignored Him as He spied them in their foxholes from the trees in Bastogne. They saw Him pass them by and take their friends, their replacements, allies, enemies, whomever He pleased, but He was always hiding.  
Death was not hiding here. He walked freely in this place.  
It was a beacon, a pillar stretching high into Heaven above and deep into Hell below, the unwritten warning above the gate:  
Death is welcome here.  
  
“I can’t tell them that, Sir.”  
“You’ve got to, Joe.”  
“...okay...Yes, Sir.”  
  
_Est is nur für eine kurze Zeit_.  
It’s only for a short while.  
They had to keep them here, there wasn’t much of a choice; there was too many of them. They needed to keep them in one place, centralized, so that they could be properly taken care of and receive the medical help they needed to stay alive. To keep Him standing at the open gate. To prevent Him from stepping over the broken chain and entering once more.  
The helpless cries that poured over defeated lips from stretched mouths ran shivers down his spine as he walked among the living dead. Their sad, sunken eyes pleading desperately to anyone and everyone as Joseph Liebgott reluctantly explained the situation before falling onto the bench in the truck, his face buried in his hands to hide the tears falling from his Jewish eyes.  
_Est ist für Ihr eigenes Wohl_  
It’s for their own good.  
  
He spotted a man sitting against one of the fence posts behind the line of wooden huts that jut out like tombstones from the scorched earth. His narrow frame avoiding the sharp wire that lay across it, but only just. He, like the other occupants of this bizarre purgatory, was starving for more than just freedom, but unlike the rest of the broken faces in the grey sea there was no sadness on his beige and bony face. Instead, there lay a small smile on his dried lips. Eyes closed and head back against the wooden post, Eugene Roe could see his small, misshapen nose and dirty hair falling like twigs around his ears.  
It was an unexpected sight, such peace in a place where the evidence of suffering was strewn about in pits and rotting away in boxcars.  
Eugene couldn't help but walk over and crouch down until they were eye to eye with one another. The man, hearing the scrape of boots on the dead earth, opened his murky browns into steady blues.  
  
The Fist Fighter nodded his head.  
The Medic nodded back.  
  
Serious eyes studied the complacent man before they landed on the bony arm that rested on his knee. The fabric was trapped behind his leg, pushing the sleeve of the overly large shirt above his forearm where hastily tattooed numbers were visible on his pale flesh.    
His brow creased into a sharp line and shadowed his face. Flattening his lips, he grabbed the canteen from his belt and offered it to the man.  
“Danke.” he said. His quiet voice dripped from his mouth, the weak sound from months of hiding and disuse easily carried away by an unawares breeze.  
Eugene nodded; a tight smile to match tight shoulders while intense eyes followed wasted fingers as they reached for the canteen and slowly brought it to cracked lips. A pale clip of a scar glowed on his chin as his head tilted back. Eugene’s face set, a strained look of concentration while every muscle visibly worked under taut skin, watching uneasily as the water slid past the shiny raised ribbon carved into his skinny throat.  
  
 What is this place?   
_‘Das ist ein arbeitslager’_  
     He tore his gaze from the man and stared hard through the bars of the cage where he knew Death stood, waiting ever patiently.  
 Who are these people?  
_‘Ärzte, Musiker, Beamter, Bauern, Schreiber, Schneider, Intellektuelle…’_  
     His head twitched towards the sound of crushed hopes and baffled soldiers.  
Why are they here?  
                _‘Unerwuenschter’_  
     The man had no shoes, but he wore the same uniform of blue and white stripes,  
                ‘ _Pole, Ziegeuner…’_  
     his, like many others, plastered with a yellow star burning like a brand on his chest.  
                ' _Juden’_  
  
Death glanced at the chain lying at His feet, its reflective surface dotted with mud and mirroring His tired face. He had been to this place many times before, and earlier that same day. His hands were still warm from the souls He rescued inside the burning headstone huts and the scent of gunpowder lingered unpleasantly on His clothes.  
The sky had been the color of crumpled paper, continuously smoothed and crushed until it was worn thin like fabric.  
He was tired. He was patient.  
There was no rush.  
He was always on time.  
  
The Medic’s thoughts ran away with the wind, pushing the clouds across the sun and darkening the sky.  
“Herr Doktor?” the man questioned, trying to recapture the soldier’s attention and return the canteen. Eugene’s eyes regained their clarity, but his face remained a snow covered battlefield.  
“I’m not a Doctor, just a Medic.” He said, more to himself as he reattached the canteen to his hip. The man nodded.  
“Ja. Doktor.” He pointed to his arm, tapping his finger on the spot where a white band adorned with the Red Cross rested on Eugene’s bicep.  
The badge of respect on an arm and the symbol of disdain on a chest.  
Both on the left.  
Both by the heart.  
  
“Danke, Herr Doktor, für…” the man trailed off, glancing at their surroundings before lifting his starving arm and gesturing to the expanse of soldiers. “Die befreiung.” He shook his head absently as if bewildered or surprised and dropped his arm back onto his knee.  
Eugene wasn’t sure what he said; French was his forte, his German was terrible. He flinched as the arm came down, for the man looked like the wind would snap him in half if not carry him away entirely.  
The man saw the flash of concern on the Medic's face and gave a small smile.  
He looked alive when he smiled.  
“Ich bin gut.” he said holding his arms out and folding his bony hands into fists. “Wie einen Jüdisch Faustkämpfer, mir zäh wie Leder bin.”    
The man could tell the soldier didn’t understand him by the blank expression on his face, his swampy browns watching safe blues dart between the fisted hands before they rested on his eyes.    
Eugene lifted his hands in uncertain surrender, his mouth pinched at the corners.  
“Mir.” the man trickled, pointing to his face and holding his fists up protectively in front of it, throwing small punches into the air between them.  
“Mir.”  
Recognition ignited in Eugene’s eyes and he lowered his hands.  
“Ey, you’re a boxer, huh?”  
A small exchange of nods and smiles to the ground as the sun momentarily peered out from between the clouds.  
  
The man placed his skeletal hand on his chest, the withered fingers reaching deep into the sea of blue and white before it made contact with the bones underneath.  
“Max.” he tapped his chest. “Max Vandenburg, von Stuttgart, Deutschland.”  
Eugene followed suit, lifting his own hand and placing it on his chest. Healthy slender fingers resting in a field of green.  
“Gene, Eugene Roe, from Louisiana, America.”  
Max smiled.  
“Es freut mich, Eugene von Amerika, Sie kennenzulernen.” He recovered his hand from the ocean of fabric and held it out to the Medic. Eugene cautiously encased it in his. He had never seen such fragile looking hands. Max carefully placed his free hand over Eugene’s and looked deep into those lucky American eyes.  
“Danke.”  
Eugene knew that word. It was a word that needed no translation and carried layers of things unspoken, falling like a weight on his already heavy heart.  
  
_Please, God, let there be no other place like this on Earth._  
God didn’t answer, because it wasn’t. There were more, and there were worse. Death had been busy these last few years.  
He held Max’s gaze. His eyes were kind.  
“You’re welcome." he said quietly. Max tightened his grip for a moment longer and released his hold.  
His hands didn’t feel like they were made for gloves and the ring, they felt like they were made for ink and paper.  
  
“Wie lange müssen wir hier bleiben?” Max pointed to himself, then to the ground between them while shrugging his bony shoulders.  
“I don’t-” Eugene started, but another voice finished from over his head.  
“Wir wissen es nicht. Nicht zu lang, hoffen wir.”  
It was Liebgott.  
Eugene glanced over his shoulder and stood up, nodding to man with pain filled eyes.  
“What did he say?” Liebgott squinted at the ground, his hands finding their way into his pockets.  
“He wanted to know how long they'll have to stay here.” His voice was caked in anguish and he was unable to look at Max, knowing if he did his eyes would rest on that yellow star emblazoned on the dirty shirt. “I told him we didn’t know, but hopefully not too long.” He shook his head, running his hand down his face and through his hair.  
Max rose to his feet with considerable effort, but stood tall and firm.  
Death turned His head and watched him through the wire. It would be many years before He would see that man again.  
The man who hid in the basement of Heaven.  
  
 “Wir zusammen schlagen der Führer, ja?” Max ended with a wink.  
_That pricks the son of Abraham._  
The corner of Liebgott’s mouth curved into a weak smile, a first since stepping over the chains where Death still stood and walking through the gates.  
_He’s a Jew._  
“Ja,” Liebgott answered. “Das warden wir.”  
Liebgott tilted his head towards Eugene and quickly translated. “He said that we’ll beat up Hitler together.”  
“He’s a boxer, so he might be good company.”  
_I’m a Jew._  
  
Max took a deep breath and smiled at the cloudy sky.  
“Es ist so ein schöner Tag.” His voice was whole this time, and a page from a recently rescued book vibrated in Death’s pocket, its words not yet faded with the passage of time and still smelling like the destroyed German street.  
  
**A man and a girl**  
****stood still as a tide of human water surged around them.****  
**She held his face and he held her hand.**  
**He spoke with a voice in many pieces.**  
**He cried into her fingers and she cried when they dragged her away.**                                                  
**There was a whip.**  
**It was a beautiful day to die.**  
  
“Mein Wortschüttler kann von sie Baum herunterkommen.”  
Eugene lightly tapped Liebgott’s arm with the back of his hand, but there was no answer, just a shake of the head and look of uncertainty.  
“What did he say?” he repeated. Liebgott leaned his head closer to Eugene's and folded his arms, both unable to look away from Max.  
“He said it’s a beautiful day,” both men glanced reflexively upwards. Death stole a glimpse as well.  
It was the color of tarnished silver.  
“He also said…I don’t know…” he scrunched half his face. “Something about a girl in a tree who shakes words and can come down from it…?”  
The Medic and the Soldier shared a look and shrugged while Death smiled at the Jew with the small misshapen nose and hair like twigs.  
He turned away from the gate and walked noiselessly into the forest.  
He was patient, but He had other places to be. He knew He was no longer welcome here.  
Besides, the man’s hair had turned to feathers and his arms became wings.  
A bird in a barbed wire cage. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is a headcanon I thought of ages ago, and wrote ages ago, and edited about 50,000 times since then, and finally decided to post it after a tumblr friend was like "go for it, bro."  
> So I did.  
> I just have a lot of feelings about Max, and Roe, and Lieb, and gdi, I just have a lot of feelings.  
> Big thank you to my friend Thor who helped me with the German bits, because google translate is only so accurate. Hopefully they're all good.


End file.
